The Cursed One
by Openhome
Summary: What if the world you knew, the world that hated you, wasn't the world you belonged in? For Cain, the cursed son of a fallen man, reality has twisted out of its normal path. Now broken and alone, he must determine what his reality truly is.


This story is one I wrote for the Fanficaholics Anon 100 Pictures Competition. It is very different from what I normally write, and is **NOT** in the Twilight Universe. I had fun writing it, and I hope you have fun reading it!

All original work is mine, the mythology is based on the Lord of the Rings Trilogy created by J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended.

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_**June 3rd, 1970**_

At first the world was dark, and it moved, rocking in pain and despair in an endless swaying motion. Cain knew that he lived only because the agony of every breath reminded him of that fact. The movement of the earth made his ribs crack and shot fire across his chest.

Cain fought against consciousness and tried to return to the black oblivion, but something kept tugging at him, pulling him out of the abyss. He knew, even in the dark, heavy place where he lay that consciousness would bring more pain. There was something in that pain, some memory of a fear so deep that it reached him even now. He could not face it yet.

Slowly, the swaying motion took on a wet sound. The wet sloshing surrounded him in the dark place. It became louder and louder until it shook his entire being. He realized that the wet sound, the pain, and the rhythmic swaying were related. The pain shot through him with each sloshing sway of the planet. As his mind pulled him from the safety of black numbness, Cain became aware that there was light around him. It broke through the thick dark, bathing the world in red anger. The red light brought the first memories.

Unholy screams filled his head. Malevolent things, twisted and ugly aberrations that could not exist but did, flashed before his eyes. He felt his heart thump against the broken walls of its cage in reaction to the memories. He felt himself pull warm air into his lungs in panic. It smelled metallic, rusty.

Cain knew he should open his eyes, but he couldn't. He could not yet feel his eyes, and didn't know how to open them. More memories played against the blood red backdrop that was his vision.

Clawed hands lashed out at him, shredding him. The screams of women and battle calls of men reverberated through his mind. He heard the clang of metal against metal, the thick thud of metal hacking into flesh, and the shrill cries of death.

His breath came faster as faces appeared. None of them could be real, but Cain knew that they were more real than anything he had ever known. They were odd, ugly, and beautiful. They had names, but he couldn't remember them. One face stood out, beautifully calm against the horror. She was important, so very important, but he couldn't remember her name. It was this ethereal woman who was calling him from abyss where he lay.

He needed to reach her. He pushed with hands he could not yet feel. Pain pierced him as his body shifted, and he heard his voice call out in surprised agony. For a split second, his eyes opened and the light seared him. Yet, he saw in that brief moment the clear sky glowing above him. The effort was too much, and the abyss wrapped its dark tentacles around him, dragging him back to the nothingness. Before he succumbed, the blue of the iridescent sky became her deep, blue eyes and brought her memory into focus.

"Son of Númenor, return to me," she begged. Then she was gone and the abyss claimed him.

"Cain, child, why are you here? Are those tears, honey? Tell Grandma what happened."

He scrubbed the tears from his face furiously with muddy hands. He knew that no eight year old boy should be crying like this. As much as he wanted the warm comfort of his grandmother, his shame at being found like this would not let him reach for her.

"It's nuthin'," he said, but his breath hitched and betrayed him.

His grandmother's sharp eyes looked him over. There were no tell tale signs of a fight, but his rapid breathing and scarlet face told her that whatever was bothering her grandson was serious.

"Some men say that a real man don't cry. Your grandpa and me, we know better. Sometimes, a man just has to get stuff out, and tears is the best way to do that."

Cain looked from his grandmother's comforting face to the newly harvested fields of their small Maine farm. He couldn't look into her gray eyes. There was something in her steady gaze, a power he didn't understand and didn't want to face. His grandmother's long hair was still ebony, and the years left less of a mark on her than on his grandfather. His father and he both shared her black hair and gray eyes.

"He named me Cain," he spat into space between them. His grandmother caught her breath and held her tongue. This conversation came much too soon for her. He was too young to deal with this, too. "They told me the story in the Bible today at church. They talked about the first son who became the first murderer. I was named for him, wasn't I? He named me Cain because I was the firstborn and I killed them. I'm a curse like the man in the Bible!" He was yelling now, the angry words rushing out in a flood.

She took a breath before speaking. "He named you Cain, but he shouldn't have," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. "You were the only blessing to come out of a great loss. No one is at fault for their deaths, least of all you. You lost a mother and a brother the day you were born, and we nearly lost you, too. You were too little to survive they said, but you fought, and you just kept breathing. Your father should have been thankful that he had you, but he was so hurt by the war that all he could do was feel pain.

"You are no murderer, child, you were our salvation in a time of great sadness. Do you understand that?" she asked softly. She remembered the night her son had cursed his own babe and run out into the night. It was the last time she had seen him.

"But why did I live and they both died? Why me?"

"Because you were supposed to live, that's why. God has plans for you, Cain. You are no murderer and you are not cursed. You were meant to live and do something great." She kissed his head and tried to pull him into a hug. He didn't budge, but his breathing became more even.

The truly frightening thing was that her son had said the same thing when he came back from the prison camp when the Second World War had finally ended. That guilt had haunted his every step, and made him run when death had struck home. It was too much for any man to carry, and she could not bear to watch her grandson bear that weight on his thin shoulders.

She put her arm across those trembling shoulders. "It's time to go home."

"Return to me, son of Númenor," she called to him from across his memory, and he knew her. Tennaylith. Her voice pulled Cain back into the dark, painful world.

He heard a voice moaning nearby. Then he realized it was his own, rasping groans he was hearing. He found his fingers and began to run them along something smooth and wet. He became aware that the light was not as fiercely bright as it had been, and the air he breathed was cool, and heavy with moisture.

He did not dare move yet, the rocking motion still caused the sharp heat to burn his ribs, and he now felt a throbbing pain in his left ankle. He slowly moved his hands to find that he was in the bottom of some curved thing. He used the sides to brace himself against the constant rocking. He slowly opened his swollen eyes and looked out at the deep blue of twilight. His vision was strangely unfocussed as he tried to look up. Haggard, dark shapes passed overhead. He looked at them, trying to make sense of the place he was in. Finally, he realized the dark shapes were the branches of trees as seen through the night's mist.

The rivers near his home had such mist. It came to him then that he was on a river. He pressed his hands against the slanted sides and knew it was a small boat. He winced at the pain the effort brought, but continued to explore his world.

The walls were made of well fitting boards that glowed white in the dim light. He had been around enough boats to know that these boards were too smooth, too perfect, to be made by the rough men who inhabited the rivers near his home.

_Elven made._

The metallic smell became the smell and taste of blood. The painful fire in his side became broken ribs and the long lacerations of swords. The year 1970 became the Third Age. And Cain Stewart was a son of Númenor.

The thoughts came from nowhere, but he knew them to be true. What could not exist did, and the impossible had collided with his reality and destroyed it.

Somewhere outside of the small boat, somewhere far from the unknown place where he lay, Tennaylith and the Remnant needed him.

_If she still lived_.

That thought caused an agonizing constriction of his chest and throat. The most important thing in the world right now was not his injuries or his unknown location. The most important thing was that he return to her.

From the mists around him, her voice whispered into his being. "Return to me, son of Númenor."

He pushed against the sides of the boat, and screamed as pain overtook him, but he did not give up. He ignored the protest of his muscles, inching himself slowly up against the bow of the boat. He could use his right leg, but the left one was useless to him. By the time he rested his head on the top of the prow, he was shaking and his breathing came in ragged gasps interspersed with harsh groans. After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes and watched the thick forest pass slowly by. He heard the faint call of frogs and the high song of crickets. He slipped helplessly through the water, carried from the hidden place he now tried to remember.

It came to him slowly.

He remembered walking in the woods of the easternmost forests near his home again. Since returning from Nam, such mindless treks into the dense woods had become commonplace. He never really knew if it was to find peace or to find the demons that haunted him there. Either way, at least amid the trees he didn't need to see his grandmother's worried glances or hear his grandfather's lectures about moving on and getting a job.

His grandmother told him that he might find healing there. "There are places of great power, if you are willing to find them," she had said. "The very earth around you can help you heal. I've been to the woods, and there are places of deep magic. Go deep. Go deeper than you've ever gone. Face your fear and be healed."

He walked with nothing more than a jacket and his knives. He never even brought the comfort of his cigarettes. Wandering was both his quest, and his penance.

For a year he had wandered among the trees, each time going deeper and facing more of the relentless fear. No matter how far he walked, however, he couldn't get away from his past, and he always found his path back to the emptiness of home. The woods brought him the familiar terror of war, and home mocked him with an unattainable peace. It was yet another way that he had become his father. Just as Henry Stewart had been destroyed by war, so now his cursed son walked that same path.

This time, he had gone deeper into the forest than he had ever gone; deep enough that perhaps he would never find his way out. He walked deep enough to die here as he should have on the day of his birth. Deep enough to die as his men had in the ambush.

As he walked through the undergrowth, the bright green of spring became the deep green of the tropics. The fear that never left him redoubled with every step as the memories came at him full force. Sweat beaded on his face and wet his shirt though the spring day was cool. His heart pounded and he worked to still his breath. The enemy could tell he was there by his breathing alone, and there was an enemy here.

Instinctively, Cain sought a hiding place. He knew that he was still in Maine, but the inner soldier controlled him now, and he needed safety. The hair on his neck rose, and he knew instinctively that he was in danger. He hadn't felt that instinct since he had been home, but now he could feel the eyes of _something_ searching for him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was out of his boots and walking softly through the forest floor so as not to leave a trace of his path. His hands held something hard, and he found his knives firmly planted in his wet palms.

Cain tried to take control again, to stop being a soldier, but he couldn't. Something feral within him had taken over.

He heard motion to his left and caught a glimpse of brown hide. His sane mind screamed that it was no more than a deer, but the haunted soldier would not relinquish control. He moved deeper into a glade of trees, and took up a defensive position.

He heard rough voices, and he was back in Nam. He and his men had found their targets and were moving in to eradicate them. They had played the deadly game of cat and mouse for five days, and all of them were ready for the release of the kill.

A twig cracked loudly behind him, and he silently ghosted his way through the trees to get to a better striking stance.

A gasp and a thud to his left was the only warning he got that their position along the Ho Chi Minh Trail had been compromised. It came from Murphy's location. He gave the silent signal for halt and retreat, but it came too late for his men. The next moment, Juedes called out a single warning. "Sarge!" before his voice was cut off. He was only eighteen.

As the sergeant, these boys were Cain's responsibility. It didn't matter that he was only a year or two older than they were, he was in charge of them and responsible for bringing them home. Cain closed his eyes against the furtive images that filled his mind.

When he opened them again, he was in the dappled light of the Maine forest. The screams of his men still rang in his ears, but his soldier's training reminded him that there was an enemy here as well. It was ridiculous, utterly impossible. Yet as he pushed the memories out of his mind, he could hear the ragged breathing of two or more animals on either side of him. They were stealthy, but not careful, and he could hear their steps now as they tried to surround him.

Animals didn't act like that.

The things made a gurgling noise, not quite like a growl, but not speech either. He had never heard anything make a noise like that, and he flipped the left knife in preparation for battle.

The forms continued to advance as Cain looked for the best location to fight. He tried to stay hidden, but for a split second, he got a glimpse at what was following him. He expected to see fur and a snout, but the form that he saw was that of a grotesquely twisted man. His stomach lurched when he saw the mangled figure, but his hands stayed where they were, ready for battle.

Another voice called roughly through the woods. It was part animal and part speech, and it chilled him to the bone.

The two figures stopped and growled and then sniffed the air. Another call from the unseen one sent them scurrying back through the woods.

The second the sound of their crashing run grew distant enough, Cain was off. He ran wildly through the woods on silent feet until he came to a stream. He didn't pause before entering the icy waters and continuing his run upstream. He didn't stop until the fire in his lungs and the ache in his legs became too much. He found a hollow space between the roots of an ancient tree, and pulled himself into it. His feet were bloody, and his hands numb from gripping the knives, but he did not let go until the sunlight slanted with the afternoon light.

When he finally emerged from the tree, he had no idea where he was. Yet, even with the taste of fear still on his tongue, he froze in wonder and looked around. This place, from the earth below to the trees above him, was different.

He tried to put his finger on what made the place unique, but it was a myriad of subtle changes rather than one overarching thing. The bark of the trees was too soft. The green of the leaves was too intense. It was almost the wrong shade of green, or perhaps he was finally seeing the right one. The scents of the forest filled him in a way that defied anything he understood. The smell of the earth itself, of the water and soil, was a richly potent scent.

The place was utterly alien and absolutely familiar at the same time. Something within him knew this place. He'd been searching for it his whole life, though he didn't know it until now.

He stumbled through the beautiful forest, touching everything. When he could no longer walk, he simply collapsed onto the forest floor. His past and the terror of his last few hours no longer mattered. Here in this good place, all that mattered was the dance of the leaves and the smell of the living plants around him. In the soft ferns, he slept without nightmares for the first time in years.

The memory of sleep was enough to thrust Cain back into the abyss, but the quiet oblivion didn't last long. Other memories pulled him from the darkness, and Cain was again in the dark jungle. Cries and gunshots filled the air. He could feel his heart race, but he could not move. It was an ambush, and there was no way out. For a brief moment, his fear overcame him, and Cain stayed silent. Someone screamed for him, a terrified voice that ended in the high shriek of death.

His men needed him. He burst from the safety of the hiding place, and wielding both his knife and gun, began to make his way to the dark figures writhing before him.

Then the memory ended. Cain knew that there was more, but all he knew from that day were the horrid sounds, a bright flash and shredding pain. And guilt. There was so much guilt that it pressed on him, crushing him.

Cain's eyes flew open. The night sky was filled with stars from which a musical voice spoke. "Son of man, all that is required of you is that you do what _must_ be done." The moon became silver hair that surrounded wise, sad eyes. The image of Elanway of Lorien was enough to bring him peace.

Cain breathed in the cool night air. It still caused him pain, but it cleared his mind a little. Then he realized that it wasn't the monsters who first led him into the impossible world he longed to return to. It was the little ones who had led him home.

Cain remembered waking to the sounds of the birds and giggling. A soft child-like voice whispered words he could not understand. A second small voice chortled.

He slowly opened his eyes, not wanting to scare the children away. When he could see a sliver of the world before him, his eyes flew open wide, and he gasped The two tiny figures squealed and ran impossibly fast for cover. He jumped up, disbelieving what he had seen, and hit his head hard on a branch.

"Damn!" he yelled in protest as he stumbled forward onto his knees from the impact.

One of the tiny creatures gasped and the other giggled again from the cover of the woods.

He set off after them, calling out to them as he ran. They ran ahead, leaving only unusually large footprints behind. He was barely able to keep up with them. Their small stature gave them a great advantage as they raced through the dense forest.

Soon, the two curly haired gnomes disappeared completely, and he was left to follow the faint signs of their trail. He stared in wonder at the enormous footprints of the little creatures.

A chill went suddenly down his spine, warning him again of something horrid in the woods. To his far right, something snarled and began crashing through the trees. His instincts returned as before, but this time Cain would not hide from the thing in the woods. Not with the two small ones here.

He began his own silent run, knives in hand and senses alert. He followed the trail of the snarling thing. The small ones screamed ahead of him, and the thing began an all out run. Cain sprinted after it, no longer worried about being detected.

He crashed through the woods into a small glen just a second after the thing, and his gut twisted at what he saw. The two tiny ones, each one the size of a year old babe, were sprawled on the ground. One was holding onto the twisted body of the other. A long, black arrow pierced through the chest of the one on the ground, forcing him into a grotesque sitting position.

Two horrific figures whooped in victory. They were shaped like men, but their features were those of animals. Their greenish and darkly mottled skin reminded Cain of putrid bodies, swollen in death. The two things turned their yellow eyes to him and screamed in rage. They both wielded long blades, and one had access to a quiver of arrows on his back.

Cain's horror gave way to the warrior within him, and he expertly deflected their first attacks. The creatures were shorter than he, but quick, and they handled their weapons well. He could not keep up with their fast maneuvers, and he focused on pulling them away from the two tiny creatures. The smaller one, a girl he now realized, was pulling the other backwards towards the trees, sobbing as she did.

He felt a sharp pain in his arm and then one in his side followed by a searing burn. The fat one had sliced his forearm and right side with the knife, and Cain could see his blood on the black sword. The fire made his arm difficult to use. The shorter one lunged for him, but Cain used his left hand to deflect, and his right to make a crude upper-cut. He felt the blade go deep into the area just under what looked to be a mail shirt. The loathsome thing let out an ear-splitting screech. The fat one reared back and roared in rage, leaping at Cain. With his weakened arm, all he could do was dodge him. The small one was bent over, still screaming, as the fat one turned its yellow eyes on Cain and lunged again. Before it could reach him, a rock thudded against the thing's skull. Thick, black liquid poured from the wound.

The thing growled and barked out a foul sounding string of sounds, grabbed the smaller creature and ran.

Cain stood numbly for just a moment before lurching over to the small girl who was still throwing rocks with uncanny accuracy at the retreating figures. He hated letting them go, but he knew that there was no way to fight them, and following them was a sure death.

He sunk to the ground by the little ones.

"It's okay," he said with a weak and rough voice as he shrugged off his old army jacket. He sheathed one knife, and cut off a swath of cloth with the other. It was hard to do with his left hand, but he clumsily tried to wrap the ugly red gash that went the length of his forearm. The cut on his side wasn't deep, but it burned like a brand.

Small hands began deftly wrapping the wound. He sat back and watched the girl. Her curly hair was pulled back into a bun, from which long, twisting tendrils escaped. Her tiny fingers shook as she wrapped his arm, and when she looked up at him, her brown eyes were red with tears.

"What are you?" he asked as he took her in. "Leprechaun? Elf maybe?"

The other little one moaned, and Cain shook himself out of his thoughts, cursing himself for not checking on the other sooner. He scooted over to the male and carefully used his knife to cut away at the leather vest and then the woven shirt underneath.

The male had been shot from the back, and the arrow had come out above his upper right breast. The skin around the wound was turning black, and he realized that this arrow and knife that had cut him had been poisoned. The male looked terrified and clawed at his chest in a desperate attempt to put out the fire that Cain knew must be burning there.

He took the knife and began to carefully cut through the tough wood of the arrow. The boy cried out twice, but mostly stayed silent, clenching his jaw so tightly that his pale lips turned white in the effort. He looked at the child. His skin was turning gray. Cain quickly made a sling of his jacket and pulled it over his head and across his body.

"I'm Cain," he said as gently as he could. He pointed to his chest. "Cain."

"Ilna," said the girl as she pointed to herself. She then looked at the boy and pursed her lips before saying, "Olion."

Very slowly, he lifted Olion, placed him in the sling and stood. The boy wrapped his left arm around the sling and gripped it.

Without warning, Ilna scrambled up his leg and hopped onto Cain's back. Neither of them weighed much at all. Ilna pointed, and with an unsure stride, Cain headed through the forest on a path that constantly headed uphill.

The climb became steeper, and soon, Cain was pulling air into his lungs in great gulps, but he would not lessen his stride. The pale boy at his chest and the fire slowly spreading up his side and through his arm told him to ignore his aching legs and lungs. He did not remember much of the long trek. He only recalled the pain and need to save the little ones. Thus, when he came to the cluster of homes that appeared to be made of both wood and earth, he only barely registered their odd appearance.

When they finally reached the small village, they were met by a large group of very short people. When they saw Cain, they froze and brandished what looked to be long knives. Cain tried to raise his arms, but his right one would no longer obey him, and the left cradled Olion. Ilina ran forward and jumped into the arms of one of them and began to talk loudly and rapidly. The small ones, who all looked alike, approached cautiously, looking from Ilina to Cain as she continued to speak.

The one who held her, possibly her father, put her down and slowly approached him. "Cain," Ilina said from behind him.

"Cain," said the older one, and he nodded at him.

Cain bent down to show him the ashen form of Olion. The cry that he older one gave when he saw the child convinced Cain that this was indeed his father. The others rushed in, each looking from the form of the barely breathing child to Cain. The father grabbed his son and began to run along the path, calling loudly. Several of the men joined him, while the others stayed with Ilina and Cain. His legs felt weak and shaky now that he no longer held Olion's life in his arms, and the burning pain clawed at his body. The men-folk began to push Cain towards a doorway in one of the largest mounds. He went without question, his mind nearly numb with exhaustion and pain.

He found himself in a large, low room that held small tables and chairs. He was shoved down, and a table was pushed up to him. The little men began to talk excitedly to another who placed small cups on the table filled with a frothy liquid. The same rotund one brought him a pitcher in front of him. Cain was surprised by his extreme thirst, and he drained the pitcher of the familiar, dark liquid in a few swallows. His head swam as a fresh pitcher of beer was placed in his hands. He quickly drained it as well, and a pleasant numbness quenched the fire a bit.

He looked around at the creatures. They were short, lived in the earth, wore green, and drank beer. His befuddled brain came to the only conclusion it could.

"Leprechauns, right? That's what you are," he said with a knowing smile. "So do I get a pot of gold?"

Another pitcher was placed in his hand. "That works as well as gold," he laughed. The others smiled at him. " To Leprechauns!" he shouted and drained the pitcher.

Two of the little men laughed at his side, clanged their glasses and chorused, "Leper-kahs!" Cain laughed at them and drained part of another pitcher as the Leprechauns cheered him on. He would have drained it all except for the fact that one of them slapped him on the right shoulder.

Fire flooded his side, and he cried out as the flames licked up his arm and into his neck. The room around him lurched and dimmed. Small hands held him down while someone unwrapped his arm. He made out a few cries and gasps as he felt the cool air brush across his flaming arm.

Several voices called out at the same time, each one saying the same word, "Gildrion."

He looked at his arm, surprised to see it wet with blood rather than burning in flame. From the gash, black tendrils tracked up his arm.

The Leprechauns pulled him out the door and he tried to stand, only to be shoved backwards into a cart. He was only vaguely aware that his legs flopped out the back of it as it lurched ahead.

Thus, when he was first brought to the Elves, he was broken in both spirit and body, and very, very drunk thanks to the large footed Leprechauns.

The lurching of the cart became the swaying of a boat. He was still in pain, but in the wrong spot, and his throat was parched dry. He tried to taste the delicious beer, but his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. As the abyss released its hold on him again, he knew that he was no longer in the cool forest. His eyes cracked open, and he saw the sun overhead. He knew he desperately needed water, but the boat that held him safely captive had none. Even injured and broken, the warrior within him would not let him give up, and he reached around for anything he could use. There was a little liquid in the bottom of the boat, but it was red with his blood. He felt around him, and found the ragged edge of his torn shirt. He tugged at it, and the sleeve gave way. He pushed himself up again until he could finally dip the thin cloth over the edge. He pulled it back in, and brought the dripping material to his cracked lips. He continued until his thirst was curbed, and his waning strength failed him.

He tried to return to the memory of the unreal world again, but other memories took over. Small hands in a cool forest became rough hands in a sweltering jungle. The rocking boat became a backboard, and he heard the rhythm of chopper blades.

"Sarge!," someone yelled, and pain flared in his gut. "Sarge! Hey look at me." He turned his head towards the young, southern voice. "Hey there!" A light raced across his vision. "Hey Sarge, stay with me now. You been hurt bad, but y'all made it. You saved 'em, yes you did."

"My men?" asked a voice that wasn't his.

"You got two out, sir," said the southern drawl again, and then the world became muffled and he left the earth. He knew he was dying, but he shouldn't be flying. He should have been in hell. He was Cain. He had killed nine of his men. Hell was for men like him.

Cain tried to make sense of the words on the papers. He could read them, but he couldn't understand them. They weren't true, and he had no memory to tell him what the truth was.

"Congratulations, son," said the uniform in front of him. "You're a hero."

Cain looked up into the man's impassive face. "I'm no hero. I don't even know what happened."

His commander, who had stood silently in wrinkled olive drabs, spoke up. "It wasn't your fault, son. They knew you were coming, and they were waiting. You saved Hernandez and Slakowski. You may not remember, but they do. They are already on their way home, and you are headed there, too. Go home a hero, and forget about this."

The General held out his hand, and Cain raised his arm as much as he could to shake the man's cold hands. "Our nation needs heroes like you now. Congratulations, and thank you for your service." He walked from the room without a backwards glance.

A hand came down on his shoulder, and he looked into his commander's tired eyes. "You did what you were ordered to, and then went above and beyond to save the men you could. Don't let the ghosts of the dead haunt you. It wasn't your fault." The hand squeezed, but the eyes remained tired.

The squeaking wheels of his chair echoed hollowly against the white walls as the nurse took him back to his room.

The wheelchair began to lurch as if it was traveling over rough paths. Then the white walls melted into a dark glade. The cart came to a halt, and the small hands and voices were around him again. He was pulled from the wagon. He stumbled towards a house that seemed to grow from the very trees around it. He then realized that the home was built on the tree. There, at the edge of a cliff was a whole village of homes hanging in the trees. They were connected by walkways, and in the mist, it was almost as if they floated among the trees. The home before him was made of what looked to be newly hewn wood. Cain saw no sign of electricity, but light streamed from the dwelling. Then he heard singing. It was ethereal and yet so much a part of the earth that it seemed to come from the very ground under him.

Two figures appeared in the doorway of the home, and the hands pushed him towards them. He was either too drunk or too sick, but the small hands could no longer keep him upright, and as his legs gave way underneath him, Cain saw eyes of the purest blue and a face he would give up anything to look upon again. Tennaylith.

The blackness pulled Cain from her memory into ones he did not want to see again. Other hands, rough, large and strong held him down on a bed wet with sweat. The horror of the episode had just left him, and now he lay weak and terrified as white-shirted orderlies held him down.

"He's back with us," said the cold voice he hated. Dr. Coulee came into view. "You're safe, Cain. You're among friends here."

The pressure from the hands lessened as the men released him. Cain sat up slowly; his wounds still burned under the angry crisscrossed scars on his abdomen.

"Was it the ambush again?" asked Dr. Coulee with no emotion.

"Yes." Cain's voice broke, and he quickly cleared his throat.

"Anything new?"

Cain glared at him and hated the uncaring man a little more. The problem with his episodes was that there was never anything new. Never.

"If you have a breakthrough, come find me," Coulee droned and then left. Cain could still hear the man's emotionless voice mocking him as the orderlies exited the room.

Delusional Disorder with psychotic episodes. That was what they said he had. They were neat and tidy words, a scientific explanation for a crippling terror that he could not escape.

"Your mind is trying to cope, to protect itself, and so when something triggers your protective response, you relive those memories. You leave reality for a while, living in your past. You may even find yourself in a created world that doesn't exist; a place that represents your fears and your need for safety. It's a form of temporary insanity, but with medication and counseling, we can help you keep the delusions away," Coulee had said when Cain first came to the hospital to recover from his injuries.

But his mind was too injured to recover.

Cain opened his eyes because of the cold thing tapping his face. The world was dark again, but the tapping was definitely there. His hand reached up, and he felt the soft rain hitting it. He shuddered, and the pain along his side flared again. Cain tasted the water on his lips, salty, but clean and sweet. He opened his mouth and let the water drip in. He knew the cold was a danger to him, but his thirst drove him to ignore it for a while and lick the water from the boat and his skin. It was only a little water, but each sip cleared his head a little more. He shifted, and something beside him moved. He felt with his good hand, and found a hard metal thing poking into his side. He pulled up the hilt of his knife. The blade was broken. He continued his blind search, and pulled up a leather pouch. Tennaylith had given it to him.

Cain's fingers fumbled with the knotted thong that held it closed. Finally, the thing slipped loose, and he shook out three lumps onto his lap. It was elven bread wrapped in strange, broad leaves. He unfolded the first, and the leaf formed a shallow bowl which he placed beside him to catch water, as he had with the jungle leaves in Nam. The bread was a little soggy, but when he bit into it, he felt instantly better. He could feel strength spread to his limbs, and his head cleared. The familiar, sweet taste brought back the memory of the incredible, impossible place he had left.

He closed his eyes and thought clearly of the Elven home as he chewed. The exterior of the cottage was deceptive in its rustic simplicity. When he was laid on a bed made of feathers, he could see that the interior was simple but luxurious. Polished wood was carved with intricate and yet subtle designs. The strange lights, a liquid held in bowls, glowed without flame. The metal of the sconces was so beautifully formed that the leaves and flowers could have waved in the breeze. As the voices incanted strange words around him, a hand held his burning arm, and for that moment, the flame cooled. He looked into the face of the one who held it, and saw wise, gentle eyes staring back at him. The eyes were those of Gildion, one of the last High Elves left on earth and caretaker of the Remnant.

Lightning flashed across the sky, and Cain returned to the cold boat that held him prisoner. An emotionless voice droned at him from the past. "You leave reality for a while, living in your past. You may even find yourself in a created world that doesn't exist; a place that represents your fears and your need for safety. It's a form of temporary insanity, but with medication and counseling, we can help you keep the delusions away."

His mind didn't remember the dark time he had tried the medication. For three months, he had been in a stupor, unable to feel or think. They had announced him cured then and sent him home. He had never decided if the terror or the numbness was worse.

He lifted the leaf to his lips and drank, and from a rumble of thunder the deep voice of Gildrion spoke again to him. "Son of Númenor, you will always be caught between two worlds now. It is your choice in which to remain."

As exhaustion took Cain again, he wondered which world was real. Then he wondered if it mattered.

As the boat travelled on its relentless path to the sea, Cain wandered between sleep and wakefulness, trying to pull his past together somehow.

He had lain in such a state on the feather bed, caught between wakeful burning and tormented sleep for five days. When he woke, it was into a world far different from the one he knew

"You are Cain?" said a musical voice with a heavy accent.

Cain looked over at a female, the most perfect woman he had ever seen. Her features were the essence of all that he knew of as feminine, and they were framed by silver hair that rippled with light like the surface of water.

"Ye-yes," he stammered, without taking his eyes off of her.

"I am Elanway and this is my lord, Gildrion."

The two people before him were beautiful and majestic, and for the remainder of his time, Cain would always feel the need to bow around the High Elves. There was deep wisdom and deeper sadness in them, and he felt unworthy to be in their presence.

"Son of man, you did well to fight of the orcs and bring the child. Your wounds were grave. I fear had you delayed your coming any longer, you would have succumbed to the poison of their weapons," said Gildrion..

"Yeah, the Leprechauns wanted to celebrate with me," Cain chuckled, remembering the heady taste of the beer.

"_What_ did you call them?" Gildrion asked, his voice strangled.

"Leprechauns. You know, little guys that wear green and drink beer. That was good beer."

Elanway said merrily. "They are not Leprechauns, though I see where your confusion came from."

"Elves, then?"

Both of them broke out into joyous laughter. "No, son of man, I can tell you of a certainty, they are not elves," chuckled Gildrion.

"Why do you call me son of man?"

"Because you are not Elf, Dwarf, Orc, Ent or Hobbit," said a voice as rough as gravel.

Cain turned to see a man, or half of one, standing in the doorway. Though he was short, his breadth made up for his stature. His face was almost totally hidden by a dark brown beard that seemed to grow into his eyebrows. He walked over to Cain, looking him over. "If you want _good _drink, I'll get you something to put a decent beard on your face," he said pointing to Cain's face. Then he held out his hand. "Thalik, son of Durick, at your service."

"You have impressed the Dwarves," said Elenway.

Cain swallowed against the cold recognition that rose in his throat. "Dwarves?" he croaked.

"The Western Remnant," nodded Thalik.

"You said Ents and Orcs. You said Elves and Hobbits," Cain said, breathing far too quickly as the full meaning of the words hit him.

Thalik smiled knowingly. "And you thought they were Leprechauns."

Cain woke suddenly to the same cold feeling in his chest. The sky was pink behind him as the bow of the boat headed relentlessly east.

Dr. Coulee's cold voice rose with the frigid feeling. "You may even find yourself in a created world that doesn't exist; a place that represents your fears and your need for safety."

Cain desperately felt the side of the boat. He touched his woven shirt and the intricate buttons that held it closed over his burning side. He picked up the leaf, and drank the last of the water. This was real. This boat was no representation of safety, this was his prison, taking him from the only reality he wanted. This was real, it had to be.

"Your fears, these episodes that seem so real, are all manufactured by your mind," Coulee said from the dark. "You are too weak to know the difference, and if you give in to them, you will remain in your madness."

He watched the sun rise over his useless body, and tried again to find the truth in his broken mind.

The nurse wheeled him out of the building one last time. His heart leapt and thudded in his ears when he saw the two figures by the Oldsmobile. His grandmother looked as she had the day he left for basic training, though even in the fog of his medications, he could plainly see the worry etched in her face. His grandfather was thin and stooped beside her. The years of war had worn on him.

"Just keep him medicated and try to find him a job that isn't stressful," Coulee was saying. "If you stress him, he may lose contact with reality. With an easy, monotonous job and these prescriptions, you should be able to have your grandson back. If he seems to start seeing things that can't be real, call me. It's just a part of his illness."

Cain had hidden the worst of it from his grandparents. After three months of collecting eggs and driving the plow and living in slow motion, Cain began to drop the pills down the same crack he had dropped his broccoli through. Just as Coulee predicted, the horror came back. At first, it was in his dreams. His grandfather's snoring and being a floor below, had kept them from hearing his screams. The worst episodes happened in town, where the slightest sound or smell would bring back memories of battles. After a few months, his grandfather began to look at him with contempt, and his grandmother with pity. Everyone looked at him that way.

Everyone but the Dunedain.

His mind thought of the gray eyes, dark hair, and stern faces of the warrior kings. They understood the truth of war. They knew the terror that haunted Cain.

It was Thalik who had taught him of their history and led Cain to them.

"The children of the king's second son were tasked with protecting the North, and especially the Halflings, for we owe them a great debt, and the Enemy desires their destruction. The Dunedain have faithfully fought to protect us all. When the seed of man began to cover the land, the Remnant of the Dwarves and Elves took the Halflings and moved away. Some moved north and others east, but we moved west. The men of England hadn't yet found this land, but we knew it was here, so the last of the great ships was built, and Gildrion led the Remnant across the sea.

"The Dunedain still protect us, but the cost to them is terrible. When we would go to the tribes and then towns of man to trade, some of them stayed behind, desiring the simple life and relative peace that ignorance brings. Such is your heritage, for you hold the blood of Númenor in your veins, or I am no dwarf."

"You've already told me that," said Cain. The history of the Remnant was now pounded into his mind by the Dwarves. Besides, he had read the books.

"Yes, but you weren't listening."

"That's because I was too full of _your_ mead," snapped Cain, "and I am no son of the kings."

Cain stood, looking at the dark eyes of the mythical creature before him. There was no way that he, Cain, the son of a sick and broken man was from such a heritage. He was Cain, and there was nothing noble in that.

"It isn't just blood that makes a man a Dunedain. It is a heart and a choice." Cain snorted at the thought, and Thalik scratched his thick beard. "If you don't believe me, we'll go ask them."

Thalik led him over miles of forest paths to find them. By the time he slowed, Cain was too hot to ask what was in the flask that the dwarf handed him. He gulped down several huge drafts before tasting the sweet, burning liquid.

"Gah!" he spat. "Have you ever heard of water?" he choked. His mind began to swim, and his ears buzzed.

"Never drink it," snorted Thalik. "Nasty, tasteless stuff."

Thalik rounded a corner and Cain stumbled against him and tripped into a band of men. They wore green and brown, which camouflaged them in the dense woods. They were tall, with dark hair and eyes various shades of gray.

All except one pair. One set of eyes were the endless blue of a twilight sky, and he was lost in them. He stood still, wavering on unsteady legs, seeking to find the depth of those eyes that now seemed to laugh at him.

"How is it that every time I see this man, he is drunk," laughed Tennaylith.

"Because the poor boy can't hold his mead," chuckled Thalik. "He even got drunk on Hobbit beer."

"So I saw," she smiled at Cain, and he felt like a fool. He ducked his hot face and stared at the ground. "Of course only Hobbits would think of getting a warrior drunk before checking him for injuries," she said more gently.

She had called him a warrior, and that word stirred something long dormant within him.

"I have no idea how you came across our border unseen, but your actions saved two children and perhaps countless others. It may have also warned us of a coming attack. We are in your debt, Cain."

Cain's head shot up as she said his name. Her speech was heavily accented, but he detected a hint of kindness in the way she said his name. Or perhaps he was just drunk.

Cain heard himself moan as the red sunlight pierced the darkness. It beat on him, hot and steady. He reached for the leaves, to find that only one remained. It held a small drink of water. When he drank, the leaf blew out of his hands. His cracked voice called out in protest.

Then he saw that the forest no longer surrounded him. The small boat now bobbed over large waves, and the land from whence he came was a distant smudge on the horizon.

Hopelessness fell on him and he sand to the bottom of the boat. He was too weak to fight this. He would die here, far from both danger and love. He had been so close, so very close to finding his truth, his path, but it would end here.

With the desperation of a hopeless man, he drew the memories out easily now. She would be his last thought. It would be the last thing he would offer to her and the people he had failed.

The feeling of Tennaylith's body against his came, and he happily released himself into the memory of the only place he had ever felt at home.

"Return to me, son of Númenor," she said. She gave him a small wreath made of a long lock of her dark hair. In it, she had woven the beautiful, golden Elanor flowers that grew around her home. She took it and hung it on the chain with his dog tags.

"I have nothing for you," he said.

"Then you must return from the battle so that you may give me a gift. Above all else, return to me, son of Númenor," she said.

By some twist of fate, she wanted him. He was broken and had nothing to offer, yet from their first meeting, she had chosen him. He crushed his lips over hers, holding her with the desperation of a man on the brink of losing everything. The horn sounded, and their mail clad bodies parted. Numbly, he put the helmet on his head, felt the sword in his hand and the knives by his side, and he turned from what he loved to do what he must.

That is where his memory faded.

Try as he might, Cain could remember no more, and as thirst and injury slowly took their toil on his wrecked body, he remembered only her final words to him.

"Return to me, son of Númenor."

June 10, 1970

"Cain, honey, what are you doing in there?" his grandmother asked from above. Cain looked out of the root cellar. It was the perfect place to read on a hot day.

"I'm reading about Hobbits and Elves," he called. His fingers ran down the worn cover of his beloved book.

"Well, it's dinner time, and you need to come out of Middle Earth," she laughed back.

"Come on out of it," said his grandmother again, but her voice was wrong. Cain smelled bleach and chemicals and sickness. He opened his eyes and saw white walls, and then the face of his grandmother, much older now, came into view.

"Where am I?" he croaked. His throat felt as if it had glass shards embedded in it.

"You're safe, honey," she said softly and kissed his forehead.

From somewhere, Dr. Coulee's voice echoed her words. "You're safe, Cain. You're among friends here." Cain's gut twisted at the voice.

"What happened?" he rasped.

"We were hoping you could tell us," said a voice beside him. He looked up at a doctor who held his thick medical record. Beside him was a tray filled with medication.

Once again, Cain searched his mind for the truth, but couldn't find it. "I don't remember," he said as two voices fought in his mind for supremacy.

"_You may even find yourself in a created world that doesn't exist."_

"_Return to me, son of Númenor."_

"Do you remember how you were injured? They look like knife wounds," said the doctor.

Cain looked from the doctor to the tray of medications. "I stumbled upon a group of moonshiners," he finally said. He wondered if he really had. His head felt foggy and his tongue became thick.

The doctor nodded. "You'll feel better soon, Cain. Just give the meds a chance to work, then you can go home."

Cain sat at the table, drawing things that could not exist. For the last six days, he had filled page after page with drawings of small flowers, homes in trees, small people, and deep blue eyes. As the pills dropped down the hole in the floor, his mind cleared, but he still didn't know which reality was his.

He didn't move when his grandmother brought an old, bent man into the kitchen.

"Cain, this is Tom," she said loudly. He looked up at the grizzled face, and nodded.

"Tom was one of the sailors on the boat that rescued you," she said, pushing Tom closer to Cain. Cain held out his hand for Tom to shake. The old man's hands were corse from years at sea.

"I wanna talk wit ya," said the man with a heavy Maine accent. Cain nodded to him, and Tom took a seat beside him. He looked at Cain's grandmother and nodded, and she left, shooting Cain a worried look.

"That was a... unique boat," Tom began. He looked Cain over and smiled wrily. "I still have it at the dock, if you want it. You were nearly dead, but you kept sayin' some pretty odd things. Mostly you said names, and some of them I recognized." Cain looked at him, and was caught by the man's gray eyes. There was something noble there beneath the dark eyebrows, something familiar. "You're body is covered with the scars of two kinds of war. You must now choose which of those wars to fight."

Tom reached into his pocket and drew something out. He looked at it tenderly, smelled it, and dropped it on the table.

Cain felt the air leave his lungs and could not remember how to pull it back in.

On the table before him, was a long, thin chain holding three items: two dog tags, and a wreath made of hair that held living Elanor flowers.

"I am Toulom, long ago of the Dunedain, and you have a choice to make."

Cain's trembling hand touched Tennayith's gift, and he believed. Neither his father's curse nor his past mattered any more. Only she and his duty to her people mattered now. He was Cain, and he would do what he was able.

Cain tightened his boot around his left ankle again before limping out of the boat. He drew his coat tighter against cold wind, feeling the soft circle of hair brush against his chest. He had left the dog tags behind.

He pulled the boat up onto the hard land. Darkness came to early these days, and snowflakes were already falling. If he didn't find her soon, he would have to go back. Not even he could face Maine's winter alone.

He didn't see it at first. He was too tired from months of searching and too busy pitching his tattered tent to see the changes around him. It wasn't until he searched the ground for kindling that he noticed. Under the dry leaves lay small bunches of golden flowers that the death of winder couldn't quite touch.

He froze and then gently touched the blossoms, fearing they would shatter under his rough hand.

"You have returned, son of Númenor."

Cain began to tremble as he turned to the voice that had called him home. Tennaylith stood before him.

When he found her eyes, the blue of twilight cut him through to his soul. At that moment, she was in his arms. His hands ran over her face and through her hair. He kissed her hard, greedily, and she pulled him against her, holding him tightly.

He wanted to tell her everything, but his tight throat only whispered, "I'm home."

* * *

I told you it was different!


End file.
